


Teacher

by Manniness, wanderamaranth



Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-03
Updated: 2011-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-15 08:12:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/Manniness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderamaranth/pseuds/wanderamaranth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  Alice is Curious, don't you see?  And if Tarrant refuses her... <i>whom else might she ask?</i></p><p>Rating:  M+ for explicit sexual situations and angst</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

“Why, Tarrant, _imagine_ finding you here.”

Tarrant Hightopp glares at the fish-lickering evaporating cat that has interrupted his eavesdropping activities. Yes, eavesdropping is Bad and, overall, an activity that ought to be beneath a Royal Haberdasher, but... well... he’d practically been invited!

“I’ll be taking tea with my newest Advisor to-day,” the Queen had mentioned in passing (although it had not really been _in passing_ as it had been rather obvious that the Queen had gone out of her way to wind through the castle and pass by the hat workshop door and muse aloud) her eyes shining with mischief.

“Is that so, Your Majesty?” Tarrant had asked, wondering if he ought to put down the scissors he was holding or carry on with things.

“Yes. And you might find the topic of our conversation rather... pertinent.”

Tarrant had blinked and, smiling, the Queen had wiggled her fingers in the air, performed a graceful about-face, and drifted away.

No, it hadn’t been a  _proper_ invitation. It had been an  _almost_ invitation. Normally, Tarrant wouldn’t even bother to entertain an  _almost_ invitation, but it seems – these days – to be more than enough for him.

Chessur continues with his usual obnoxious flair, “I do believe that looks like a  _private_ gathering between the Queen and her Advisor that you are a cat’s hair away from intruding upon.”

Indeed it is. Tarrant bites back a (rather fitting!) remark about Chessur finally seeing past his own over-inflated ego. He resolutely ignores the cat and ignores his own bad manners and strains his ears toward the faint sounds coming from the Snud Garden gazebo of tea being taken there.

“Although, come to think of it, I _do_ believe both you _and_ Alice have experienced difficulty differentiating between _public_ and _private_ places...”

Alarm spikes in him and Tarrant nearly turns and confronts the cat over that. But no. No, what’s done is done. And what he is doing now if far more important than quibbling over and shouldn’t-have-dones.

“Ridiculous man. What could you possibly overhear that isn’t already blatantly obvious?”

“Hush,” he growls and, thankfully, the blasted creature does.

“Alice,” the Queen says at long last. (Almost as if she had been waiting for Tarrant and Chessur to settle down!) Her normally soft voice carries rather well despite the obviously private setting. “I have been meaning to ask you... are you aware that tomorrow is Kinwich Day?”

“Er...” Alice begins, her voice so soft he can barely hear her behind the tall shrubbery he had chosen to accommodate him when he had helplessly accepted the _almost_ invitation. (Of course, a seat would have been more comfortable, but as he hadn’t been _properly_ invited, he feels partaking of the comforts of a chair would be rather pretentious.)

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Alice says, sounding as delightfully distracted as she ever does these days. Could it be that thoughts of him are the cause of her inattention? Tarrant holds his breath, dares to hope that this is evidence of a change in her feelings for him...

“Did you say _Kinwich_ Day?”

“I did, Alice. I did.” There is the sound porcelain sliding together as a cup is picked up. “Kinwich Day is quite a rare day in Underland as it only comes whenever the sun is right-side up and the stars hum a polka on a Witzend-ernly breeze.”

“Rare, indeed,” Alice agrees drolly and Tarrant smothers a cackle.

“Quite!” Having gotten an agreement from her Champion, the Queen sounds rather chuffed now. “If I might be so bold as to pry a bit... who will you be spending it with?”

“Um... well, I’m afraid I’m not very familiar with Kinwich Day customs...”

“Ah. Of course.” There is a pause, a grace full sipping, and then a soft _click_ as the cup is returned to its saucer. “Traditionally, the day is spent with loved ones.”

Tarrant holds his breath and ignores the cat tail tickling his ear. He cannot help but hope that Alice will say... that these last weeks that he and she had spent together have come to mean... that she will  _choose_ ...

“Are... you saying that I should visit my family Above, then?”

He startles as the breath he’d been holding turns to lead in his chest. He blinks in helpless response to the heat he feels gathering in his eyes. He stares at the shrubbery but does not see it. Even Chessur’s tail stops teasing his ear.

“Are you saying you have no loved ones here in Underland?”

The Queen’s newest query is met with silence. Resounding silence. Un _bearable_ silence.

 _Almost_ invitation or no, Tarrant cannot hear anymore. He pivots smartly, ignores Chessur’s scowl and hiss of “Just where do you think  _you’re_ going?” and marches back toward the castle. Where is he going? He silently answers the cat’s snide question: he is going back to work. Nothing has changed so why should his duties, his responsibilities, his schedule? There is  _no reason_ for him  _not_ to go back to work: Alice does not... she does not consider him to be... despite everything they have... and all he has given... and he had hoped that... that...!

He stops in the center of the corridor, fists his hands and damns himself. “Ye hoped a-wrong, lad,” he hears himself growl. The sound brings him back to himself enough to notice a soft breeze playing against his face. He blinks, turns, and stares helplessly at the open doorway on his left. Through there he can see the balcony – the precise balcony – upon which he and a newly-returned-to-Underland Alice had stood together, where he had... where she had...

Tarrant sighs. He doesn’t want to think about that now... not when it had just been confirmed that Alice doesn’t consider him to be...

No, he doesn’t want to remember.

But he does.

He stares at the balcony and the sheer curtains fluttering in the breeze and the sunlight streaming in through the sparkling archway... It had looked very different that evening when he had found himself alone with her; it had been a place dusted with hope and draped in mystery. She had stood next to him, had reached out to him and he had hoped... And when she had asked, he had  _wished..._

But for naught. All for naught.

Now he merely wishes he had not made the greatest mistake of his life; the misstep that will cost him his heart.

*~*~*~*

“Come, come! We must hurry if we’re to reach the floor in time to join the dance!”

In his excitement – imagine the opportunity to _dance_ with Alice, to place a hand on her waist or feel the warmth of her palm balanced upon his, her fingers curled around his hand! – Tarrant feels his heart hop-skip- _jump!_ when  Alice steps forward boldly. Yes, part of him _does_ hate to interrupt this moment – this is their first opportunity to be alone with each other since she had returned an entire, glorious week ago – and he does not want to squander it, but the thought of being so _close_ to her on so innocuous a pretense...!

“I’m not interested in dancing.” she says, not even glancing at the impromptu party that had sprung up in the lantern-lit courtyard below.

Tarrant, having begun moving toward the threshold, stops, turns, and stares at Alice. Not interested in dancing? Whoever heard of such a thing? Why, dancing is one of the pleasures of life that both civilized and uncivilized societies enjoy in equal measure! Along with music, art, good food…

He gapes at her and she watches him back with an intensity that is both new and very familiar. He has watched, this past week, as she had seemed to be working some puzzle over and over in her thoughts. He has sensed, these last few days, that her gaze has been following him. Here, now – on this balcony – she has the look of someone who has found a very satisfactory answer. And she is looking... at _him._

“I have been considering,” she begins, pausing to nervously wet her lips and take a deep, bosom-lifting breath, “a particular issue these past few days, which has intrigued me greatly.”

Before he can inquire as to what that might be, she (rather abruptly!) reaches for the waist of his trousers. Her fingers manage to hook themselves into the top band before he can even _think_ to back away. He startles at the feel of her warm hand _there_ beneath his vest and pressing against the linen of his shirt. Swallowing thickly, he forces himself to move back a single step. This causes her to follow him, a very Muchy look in her eyes that is as welcome as it is disquieting.

“I’ve heard a great many things about what happens between a man and a woman.” Alice says, fingers sinking further inside, now dangerously close to the part of him that is swelling with alarming alacrity.

It seems to Tarrant that Alice is perhaps interested in something _else_ that all societies enjoy equally.

His breath coming in short huffs, Tarrant weakly grasps her wrist and attempts to stop her searching touch from reaching its destination. Instead, Alice’s hand goes deeper, and she grasps the root of him, making him arch into her hand on a ragged gasp.

“It seems you’re not unwilling...” Alice says, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, this time with hunger. “I’ve read about such things, you know, and heard from others, but reading and hearing is not the same as a practical... _hands-on_ demonstration.” Her now-moist lips shine in the moonlight, and the sight of her so wanton, the idea that she is grasping him like this and being so _domineering_ makes his knees buckle. He slumps to the floor of the balcony, kneeling and certain that he’s gasping like a fish suddenly thrown into water. A moment of shame wells up at the notion that he apparently has been stuck incapable of speech by the Champion’s actions.

She follows him to the ground. He blinks when she removes her hand, her heat from him... but only long enough to lift her skirts. She then settles against him, her hands on his shoulders and the warmth from her center resting squarely upon his still-confined manhood. He whimpers, and Alice smiles, rolling her hips over him once, then once more when he gurgles in incoherent pleasure at the forward action.

“Tarrant…dear Hatter…” she says, as her hands slide up her body to suggestively cup her breasts. “I’m curious, don’t you see?”

“Alice,” he finally rasps out, struggles to focus on her words, her meaning, and not the wild desires of his own heart. “Surely you must…” and he pauses as Alice rolls her hips against him again, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation, “That is to say, have you...” He’d been going to ask her if there had been another she’d considered asking, but stops himself from voicing the inquiry aloud. She’d come to him! It is true that he’d hoped that someday they could be more to each other than good friends, that one day she’d look at him with love in her eyes and they’d come together and… but... he’d _never_ imagined Alice suggesting anything like this. In his brief, fevered imaginings, their joinings had always been about _love_ and _passion_ and _need_ , not Alice simply exploring the urges of her body. She doesn’t love him, and that pains him, but if he says no… _whom might she ask next?_

The idea of her doing this with anyone else is unacceptably unbearable.

“I want you, Hatter.” she says, voice almost as firm as his length. “You’re my dearest friend... I trust you.” Her hazel eyes meet his green ones as her hands smooth over his waistcoat and up his neck into his hair. He leans his cheek into the palm of one of her hands, sighing. Then she pushes her hips against his once again, and a gasp leaves him. He is still trapped within the confines of his trousers, but he can _imagine_ how it might feel if she were to free him and allow him to slide _there_ between her warm thighs... Again, she rubs against him and he shudders desperately. A few more movements like that, and he won’t be useful to her at all!

“Just say yes, Hatter.” Alice presses, leaning down to kiss his chin. It is their first kiss and it is heart-breakingly lacking... and yet the mere touch of her lips melts his lingering inhibitions like sugar in tea. “Everything else will stay the same…I just want your friendship…and this. Can you teach me? What it is that you know?” His cravat is removed and the buttons on his waistcoat unfastened before he trusts himself enough to answer her in the only possible way that he can.

“Yes, Alice. Oh, yes. Explore me at…oh! At will.”

“I will.”

“You will?” he asks, despite her forward actions that indicate she is already in the process of doing so.

“At will.” She grins.

That is just what she does. She bares him to the waist, and then shuffles back a bit in order to remove his shoes and socks. Tarrant shakily reaches for her hand as he lays down on the cold stones, silently urging her closer, wordlessly begging her not to leave. She smiles and returns her attention to his feet. Alice spends an almost inordinate amount of time down there, her hands smoothing over the curve of his calves through the fabric of his trousers, tickling the backs of his knees. Those hands then sneak up to the front of his trousers again, which she unbuttons carefully, a look of concentration on her face as she bares his length to the moonlight. “It’s a bit different than what I was told to expect. Larger?” She almost sighs (and not in the manner of one disappointed) as she wraps a hand around him. She strokes it once, twice, a third time, and the tip of him is leaking and he doesn’t care just so long as Alice doesn’t stop touching him--!

She does stop, but only to lift her skirts away and balance herself over him and renews her rocking motion. He reaches up and grasps her hips, directing her motions. When one of her more zealous movements causes the tip of him to go inside of her through the slit in her pantaloons, she freezes for a moment, and Hatter holds his breath, dreading that this will cause her to get up and leave; she’ll never continue now! What if this has frightened her away and she goes to someone else and they...

“Oh. _Oh_!” she says, a short little cry. Then she’s wriggling, she’s moving--and more of him slides inside of her! “Is _this_ what is supposed to happen, Hatter?” she asks.

“Yes!” he cries out, wanting nothing more than to flip them over and drive into her. He realizes he is being most remiss as a teacher, to make her ask all the questions instead of guiding her... but this is happening so suddenly! Instead he lies there twitching as Alice sinks down a bit further on him, and then a bit more... before she stops again.

“It... hurts, a bit...” she admits, something like shame crossing her features. “I hadn’t heard it was supposed to hurt. Suppose I’m doing something wrong?”

The question is asked with such a clinical detachment that Tarrant is taken aback for a moment. _No, this isn’t a joining of love_ , he reminds himself harshly. Alice is curious, don’t you see--he is supposed to be helping her, showing her something new... this isn’t...

“Not wrong...” he says, “Just new. Newness always hurts, at least at first.”

Alice pauses, her golden hair spilling down around her shoulders. “Does this hurt you, as well?” she asks, a worry in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“It does.” Tarrant admits, though he doubts that she will understand the source his hurt stems from. She moves to climb off of him, and he grasps her forearms in a bruising grip. “But it would hurt me more, should you leave now. Are you ready, Alice? _Really_ ready to learn?”

“Would I be here if I wasn’t?”

He grits his teeth and moves his hands to her hips. For a moment, he can only stare at the sight of his stained fingers grasping the fine silk of her dress... and the warm flesh that is beneath. He is tempted to pull her down, flush against him and _take_ her here, now... But no. She is not offering herself. She is asking to _learn._

He swallows back tears at the stark contrast and then nods. Alice grins at his agreement and allows him to push her up and away. He stands and, after tucking himself back into his trousers and buttoning himself in, he holds a hand out to her, which she accepts. He gathers his scattered garments with his other hand (it seems a bit unfair that he is mostly naked and she mostly dressed, still) and says, “Then follow me.”

They don’t have to go far. His rooms are just down the hall and to the right. The doorknob makes a small protest about an unchaperoned young lady being lured into a madman’s rooms late in the evening, but when Alice spits at it to mind its own business it settles down with a huff of indignation and a “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” before opening.

As soon as the door is shut she is wrapping herself around him again, her tongue insistently tangling with his, her arms around his waist and at last – _at last! –_ he has Alice in his arms and her mouth yielding to his and _yes this is what he_ _ **wants!**_

The clothing in his one hand is dropped in favor of fisting a great handful of her hair. He pulls away from her first and chuckles, “Eager, are we?”

“Don’t you dare tease me right now.” Alice growls, and he can see the desire heavy in her eyes. “I thought you said you were going to teach me.”

“I am!” Hatter insists. “Lesson the first: Don’t rush. There is a time for that, but not now. Not at the very first.”

He takes her hand and walks her to his bed. “Up you go.”

Scrambling onto the bed with the eagerness of a child waiting for an exceptional bedtime story, Alice turns to Hatter, and holds her hand out to him. “Are you coming?” she asks.

“Not yet.” Tarrant says. “But I will be soon.” His words are a promise and a threat all in one, and Alice shivers. Oh, yes, he will make her shiver... that and more, _much_ more. “Firstly, I need ye to undress for me.”

“That hardly seems fair.” Alice echoes his own not-so-distant-in-the-past thoughts, and a grin curls one side of his mouth.

“Whom is the teacher and whom the student, here?” he asks. Under her stubborn glare, he relents. “Fine. Just until we’re even, then.”

“I’ve used my fingers when I’ve thought of you.” she admits, as she begins unbuttoning her blouse. “I place them in my quim and...”

“Would ye like something new to stick there?” Tarrant can hardly believe he’s asking such a forward question, and moreover, that she appears to be liking it. What has happened to her, to him? he vaguely wonders. He barely recognizes himself and _this_ Alice... he would have scarcely dared to dream her.

“I think I should like that... very much.” Teasingly, she adds, “Muchly. With much muchness.”

How long has it been since he’s leered? He can’t recall. He feels one now, however. It stretches his lips and whispers in his ear and crooks a finger at him until he is on the bed with her, trouser-less and kneeling on all fours, hunting her with his gaze. She does not protest when he dispenses with her clothing – down to the very last stitch of it – now.

In this moment, it is almost easy to forget that she does not love him. It is almost easy to believe this is all that he wants. All that he needs. Before he permits her to sleep, he will exhaust her from pleasure. Pleasure is all he may have with her. Now. Tonight. But perhaps... yes, yes, perhaps if he _pleases_ her Enough...

He sits up a bit, eases her down onto the mattress, and positions them so that he is on top. A look of wild expectation overcomes Alice’s features, and she reaches for him, kissing him, _properly_ , for the second time. Tarrant allows himself to become lost in the kiss, allows her tongue to explore every contour of his mouth, and returns the favor twice over. While their mouths are joined thus, he fumbles a bit for her opening, and she parts her legs wide in an accommodating manner. Groaning his thanks, he slides a hand beneath the warm crook of flesh beneath her knee, lifts her leg a bit, and presses into her.

Alice pulls away from his mouth with a tiny, little moan; he sinks in completely, destroying that which was and making something new. “Alice!” he says, urgently, before withdrawing and sinking back into her warmth. “Oh, lov... laddie!”

He’d almost said that which he had sworn he would not tell her... not before she parts with her own Confession to him!

She grabs onto his hips, nails digging into the flesh, and whispers into his hair on a strangled scream, “Hatter, I... _ugnnhh_! Please, don’t stop!”

He doesn’t. He can’t, doesn’t wish to, cannot _conceive_ of stopping now. He’s _inside her!_ And how often he has awakened from this ghostly dream to the unbearably unsatisfying reality of Alone.

He is not Alone _now._

Tarrant pants into her hair, licks the shell of her ear, moans his pleasure against her so soft, so scented, so scintillating skin. And, of course, now that he has smelled her, tasted her, _entered_ her... he wants _more._

Mindful of everything except Thoughts, he nibbles and kisses and nuzzles down the column of her pale throat. Maps her collarbone with his teeth and tongue. Assaults her breasts with his breath and stubbled cheek. Captures her pink nipple in his mouth and _conquers._

“ _Hatter!_ ”

Yes, that’s Want in her voice. He recognizes it from all the times he _hasn’t_ heard it. Hasn’t heard it and would have given _anything_ to have it! He has it now. Has her. She’s _his!_ He’d never had the slightest Expectation that he would have her; he’d never managed to craft a single strategy for luring her into his bed; he’d never dared to dream that this would ever be possible.

And yet it _is._

Every helpless, greedy, seeking drive of his hips shows him otherwise. He is here. And she is _here_. And she is warm and wet and soft and _Needing_ _ **him!**_

Alice pants, grasps his hair, his shoulders, his back. Her palms are slick on his skin and her nails dig as she scrabbles for something solid to hang onto, to keep herself together.

He knows the Feeling.

“Alice...” He wants to tell her the lesson’s not over, that what is coming will be merely a recess, but the words scatter as the pressure, the pleasure, the pace builds. He leans back, lifts her legs up and wide, braces his palms against the underside of her thighs and _Takes_ her.

Alice lies spread out beneath him, her hands clutching the coverlet, her face and neck flushed, her breasts heaving with both her breaths and every thrust of him _entering_ her. He glances down, watches that happen, witnesses _himself_ pulling out and then sinking in with a helpless snap of his hips. And she _Takes_ him.

The sight, the thought, the scent of her wetness, her musk, is too much. He’s wanted her too long. Much, much too long to stop now.

And then, with a rush of hot release, he spills his essence inside her. In Alice. He is _inside_ Alice.

Shaking, he falls forward, catching himself on his hands and then lowering himself to her warm, slick body. He absently nuzzles her shoulders, breathes her in, pants his eternal gratitude against her skin.

For long hard-won moments, they lay still joined, the heat from their bodies causing steam to rise in the cool night air, and himself softening inside of her. He feels Alice smile against the crook of his neck and sighs when she licks the skin under her lips. Gathering his rather presently-unimpressive strength, he braces himself, lifts his weight from her. Her hands smooth over his chest, learning the contours of his body, the lean muscles and faint scars that wrap around from his back.

“Does sex feel like this with everyone, do you think?”

Alarmed, Tarrant startles, glancing upward to eye Alice warily. They’d just--! And she’s thinking of...?! Had his performance been so lacking that--? But of course. She hadn’t... Well, no, not _yet._ But, still, how can she lie here beneath him, her body still clinging to his and ask that... that...!?

“Why would ye be wonderin’ that?” he asks, trying not to snarl the words.

“Well, Chessur did offer...” Alice admits, causing Tarrant to give a groaning growl – _That bloody Cat!_ – but Alice blithely continues on, “and I _am_ curious, but I thought before I tried anything _too_ strange that I should see what it was all about. You know. Basically.”

“Basically?” he echoes in numb disbelief.

“Well... yes.” She admits this without a trace of embarrassment or shame. Under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed her naked, filled with his seed, and lacking in both embarrassment and shame Very Much.

Under _these_ circumstances, however...

“An’ yer curious as teh... _that_ as well, are ye? A matin’ wi’ an Evaporating Cat?”

“Aren’t you?”

His grin is toothy and... feral. “Nay, fer I’ve _seen_ it.”

Alice snorts. “Hatter, Chessur wouldn’t have just _let_ you watch!”

“I’m afraid he did.” Much to Tarrant’s acute Disgust at the time. Now, however, he wonders if that often-avoided memory might be put to Good Use. “After all, laddie, Chessur isnae _invisible._ He _evaporates._ An’ his partner at th’ time wouldnae’ve been tae pleased wi’ him fer evaporating... _that._ ”

Alice winces. “Ah. I see your point.”

“Bu’ ye’re _still_ curious. D’nae worry, Alice. If’n it’s a cat-matin’ ye’re wantin’, I’m more than willin’ teh oblige ye...”

And before he can talk himself out of it (Himself is just beginning to gather his arguments and puff up his chest with righteous indignation), Tarrant gently pulls out of Alice’s slick – slick with _him!_ – warmth and, reaching for her arm, flips her suddenly onto her stomach. He crouches over her, plants his knees on either side of her hips, reaches for her hands and laces their fingers together, and then leans down to sniff leisurely at her hair.

“Fer a cat, my Alice, ’tis th’ scent tha’ brings ou’ th’ beast...” he rumbles into her ear. He smiles when she shivers, when her panting breaths resume their frantic pace. Yes, she’s curious. Marvelously so. And there’s so very much to be curious _about..._

He buries his nose in her hair, inhales, rubs his cheek through her tresses. He lowers himself until his sparse, springy chest hair tickles the back of her shoulders and she arches into him... Yes, just like a cat. In reply, he stretches, rubs his throat against her shoulder, purrs.

“Hatter...”

Her hips move in restless circles beneath his pelvis. He moans his approval and licks her neck.

“Ah..! _Hatter!_ ”

He sets his teeth against her neck, scrapes, bites. She gasps and he wishes briefly for claws. Oh, he would give a year’s worth of hats to be able to prick her skin with partially-sheathed claws, to show her _that_ particular torture. At least, it had _looked_ a bit torturous when he’d turned the corner outside the Windmill House and had seen Chessur... _attending_ to his conquest at the time.

Tarrant had stood, transfixed, appalled, disturbed... as if he’d been watching the Underland Railroad’s prize steam locomotive crash and burn... for a second time. Yet he hadn’t been able to look away. All in all, it had been an unsettling yet... _educational_ experience.

“Cats,” he growls in her ear, “are extremely possessive creatures, _my_ Alice. Possessive o’ wha’e’er happens teh be in their possession at th’ time. An’ a _male_ cat willnae permit his _pussy_ teh carry ano’her’s seed in her quim.” He licks briefly, delicately at one vertebrae, and then another, slowly, relentlessly paving a trail along her arching back.

“Hatter!”

His hands leave hers and he grasps her hips. “I’ll have teh check, laddie. Who has had ye before me?”

“No one!” she gasps even as he lifts her onto her knees. “It’s only been you, Hatter. Just you...”

He pets her hips and nudges her knees wider. Alice reaches blindly for a pillow and clutches it to her chest. He regrets that he won’t get to see her eyes open with shock, her expression twist with pleasure, but perhaps he’ll earn a scream...

Tarrant lays down on his back on the bed behind her, wiggles until his head is directly beneath her hips. He reaches for her again, to hold her still, opens his mouth and breathes against her wet, sticky curls.

“ _Ahh!_ What... what...?”

“Alice, my naughty kitten, someone’s already had yer quim,” he murmurs and then he applies his tongue.

“ _ **Hatter!**_ ”

Her thighs tremble against his hair and he keeps his grip on her hips as he licks her, tiny licks at first, and then deeper ones, longer ones. His essence and hers are gathered up by his tongue and she pants screaming wheezes, strains to move, to thrust in time with him but he holds her still.

“Naughty,” he reprimands her, inhales her musk, and then swipes his tongue from her sweet, hot entrance all the way up to that hidden pocket within her curls.

“ _ **HATTER!!**_ ”

“Gehd ghirl,” he praises, his own blood thrumming through his veins at the sound of her shout. He wants more, so he does it again; his tongue spears deeply into her flesh, presses against her nub, and then he moves his head from side to side. Alice is a mindless creature of pleasure, thrashing and fighting with him for more.

He gives it to her. He dares to release one hand from her hip, gently scissors open her flesh, encircles her sex with his lips and sucks.

He can hear the breath rush out of her lungs, hear the helpless panting sobs as she struggles to breathe. He eases a single, work-roughened, mercury-stained finger into her body and crooks it.

She _screams_.

Her wetness renews itself, coating his fingers with her warmth and his seed and he cannot wait another moment for What Comes Next. He gives her sex one last, gentle lick and then pulls himself out from under her. He kneels behind her and applies the wetness on his fingers to his hardened sex. He watches as she slumps against the pillows, her thighs still spread.

His mouth waters and his sex swells even further.

He braces himself over her once more, leans down and licks, nips, nuzzles her neck and shoulders. “Nauw ye’re ready fer me, laddie.”

“Uhh... ready?” she manages, bemused.

Tarrant grins a toothy smile she cannot see, leans back, lifts her onto her knees again and _thrusts._

Her back arches so violently he fears she’ll injure herself. Tarrant smooths his palms along her back, massaging the muscles gently until she relaxes.

“This... is how cats...?” she huffs in a dazed tone.

“I believe so,” he assures her, withdraws until he is nearly out completely, and then sheathes himself once more in her.

Alice groans.

“An’ if’n ye’re still wonderin’ wha’ sex ’twoul’ b’ like with others...” Again, he moves out and, this time, when he pushes forward, she braces her arms on the bed and thrusts back, meeting him. “Well, I can only show ye wha’ sex will b’ like wi’ _me_.”

He moves again, slowly. Deeply. “Jus’ like this, Alice.”

“ _Yes..._ ”

He revels in her plea, her Want, her Acceptance. Still, he wants... _more._

His hips thrust faster, his hands clench her hips tighter. “An’ ye’ll b’ comin’ teh me for any other lessons, won’ ye, Alice? Ye ken I’m willin’ teh... accommodate ye.”

“Yes,” she agrees, moving with him recklessly. “Yes, Hatter, Yes.”

She still does not use his name. His heart notices. His body, however, is too far gone to care.

This time, she comes when he is deep – so very deep – inside her and he _feels_ it as she twitches, spasms, squeezes, _locks_ around him. “Oh, aye, Alice, take me...” he whispers, wishing it could be so.

And perhaps, one day, it will.

 _If ye please her enough..._

As she begins to sink once more toward the mattress, Tarrant pulls her flush against him, leans back until he is seated with his legs folded beneath him and Alice is spread open over his lap. He is still hard and she still has much to learn...

He rubs her hips, her back, her sides as he moves slowly and gently, gives her time to recover and the incentive to respond to his shallow thrusts. The feel of her is  _divine_ but more than his own release, he wants to feel hers again. He wants to hear her call out... he wants to hear his own  _name_ in her screams of pleasure.

“Nugh...” she moans, her hips rocking against his. She moans again, helplessly. The sound hardens him further and he pulls out long enough to roll her gently onto her back again.

Her eyelids flutter open and her hands weakly reach for him. It is enough of a consent, a subtle demand for more.

“Nauw,” he murmurs, pressing back into her heat and wetness. “Lesson Two...”

“Two?” she echoes, dazed and breathless.

“Aye, a mahn might release his seed once or mayhap twice in a night... but a woman...” He smiles as she struggles to focus. “’Tis said tha’ e’ery woman has a diff’rent number o’ times she can...”

Alice’s eyes open wider as she comprehends his words. Tarrant leans forward until he can breathe against the soft skin under her chin.

He whispers, “Le’s d’scover yers...”

And then he begins again: he thrusts and Alice moans mindlessly. He  _rubs_ her from within until she tightens and comes, tightens and comes, and then he introduces her to Lesson Three...

Still moving within her – struggling with his own need and want and instinct and dwindling patience – he cradles her neck and shoulders in his left arm and presses the thumb of his right hand to her nub. And when he draws gentle circles around that hard flesh, he at least earns the screams he’d been hoping for.

It is only later, as Alice sleeps utterly exhausted and deliciously bare in  _his_ bed, that Tarrant remembers what he had not heard, what he had not been given, what he had tried not to hope for.

He curls his weary body around hers, inhales her scent, and both desires and dreads the coming dreams... dreams in which she might say what he longs to hear. He softly coughs back a sob as he realizes, despite all they had done and all he had given, he is no closer to receiving Alice’s love than he had been on that balcony, fully clothed and wholly innocent of her irresistible passion.

*~*~*~*

Tarrant comes awake to the very unique sensation of his nose being tickled. He opens his eyes on a soft sigh as he identifies the scent of the warm body next to him. He nuzzles a bit into Alice’s fragrant hair and then, reluctantly, rolls out of bed. She is his guest, after all, and he might not entertain guests often – and certainly not in the manner he had done last night! – but he _does_ know how they are to be treated. Both Regular guests and Special ones.

He dresses in his trousers and shirtsleeves – really, he ought to be fully dressed, he knows, but however will he get Alice to  _see_ him if he insists on covering himself with so many layers! – and pads, barefoot, to the front door. He cracks it open and, yes, the daily delivery of warm bread and fresh milk are waiting just in the hall.

“Well, I see _you_ survived the night... unfortunately,” the doorknob grouches sleepily.

Tarrant ignores the barb, gathers up the bread basket and milk jug, and gently pushes the door closed with his toes. He watches Alice through the doorway to his bedroom but she doesn’t stir in the slightest when the door thumps against the frame and the latch clicks into place.

Tarrant is not much of a breakfasting sort of person; normally, he prefers to gulp down some tea – black and strong – then promptly make his way to his workbench and hat orders. However, from observing Alice at luncheon (on more than one occasion) over the past week of festivities, he knows she quite appreciates something more... substantial.

Substantial.

The word echoes in his mind as he sorts quietly through the silverware drawer and selects a pair of teaspoons. He lifts them up and although he cannot see his own reflection perfectly in them, he glimpses a bit of orange, a flash of blurry-nearly white...

Is this how Alice sees him? Does she realize that there is... more? That there could be more? That he could be...?

 _Stop, lad. Breakfast._

“Aye,” he mutters, taking a calming breath and placing the spoons on the tea tray. “Breakfast.” And, pulling on an apron, he gets to it.

While he assembles cups and saucers, milk and cream and sugar, he keeps an eye on Alice as she sleeps. Still, Alice has not so much as sighed and the bread has been well-buttered and is frying gently on the griddle when Tarrant admits that he can delay no longer.

He must address the issue at hand: tea.

Tarrant is in the very good practice of keeping his tea cupboard well-stocked at all times, but today he pushes past the cans and jars and tins... until he finds the small – and somewhat dust-covered – wooden box of Lover’s Blend.

His fa had given him this when he’d come of age.

“ _Ye’ll be thinkin’ ’bout lasses nauw, I ken. An’ ye’ll hav’teh take care o’ whiche’er lass strikes yer fancy.”_

“I know,” he whispers.

“’ _Tis easy enough teh brew... bu’ nae sae easy teh drink.”_

He opens the lid and, from the scent alone, he knows his fa had been right. He grimaces at the utterly _rancid_ stench of the leaves and pulls down a seldom-used teapot from the shelf. He supposes the pot will be forever ruined for other teas once _this_ concoction has been brewed within it. He will simply label this his Alice Pot and will use it, henceforth, for brewing the Lover’s Blend...

 _Unless ye satisfied Alice’s curiosity too well last night..._

Oh. Oh! Yes, that is a distinct (and worrisome) possibility. Might Alice be bored with him already? After one night?

Tarrant sets the teapot down before it can be unfortunately damaged.

 _Nothin’ teh be done if that’s the case. Put it out o’ yer mind..._

“Mind...” he whispers. He blinks, gives himself a shake, and reiterates, “Mind your guest!”

He allows the familiar ritual of brewing tea to distract him from things he shouldn’t be thinking because no good will come from thinking them. He brews the tea, turns the slices of buttered bread over on the griddle for a second slow-sizzling, and then pours two cups of tea. In the bedroom, Alice rolls over in her sleep. Tarrant sighs; it’s time to find out if she still wants him.

And if she doesn’t...

Well, he wouldn’t be the first man in Underland to request a dose of Forgetfulness Draught.

Mindful of the fact that he will have to subject Alice to this horrid tea, he takes a sip from his own cup. His lips curl and his tongue dries up in disgust and every muscle in his back shudders.

Unfortunately, it is every bit as horrid as his fa had warned.

And, equally unfortunately, there is nothing for it. It must be drunk and drunk plain. But perhaps it won’t seem quite so wretched if the drinker is still bleary with sleep and their tongue and tastebuds unroused...

He carries the cups into the room, sets his down on the sideboard and looks down at Alice. His friend. His lover...

No. No! His _student._

He closes his eyes on a sigh on regret. Yes, she is his student. And he must remember that! If he wants her to see him, he must show her all that he can give. He must find a way to make her  _want_ what he can give her... and then, perhaps, by extension at the very least, she will also want  _him._

He sits down on the edge of the bed – still barefooted and be-aproned – and whispers, “Alice? Are ye awake?”

“Mrff...” she sighs, snuggling into her borrowed pillow.

Still cradling her cup in hand, he reaches out with the other to gently brush her tangled hair. Does she usually plait it at night, like his mam had done? Or does she choose to fight with it every morning in front of a mirror? Tarrant giggles at the thought; he can  _easily_ imagine Alice choosing a fight over restraint...

“Hatter?” she mutters, blinking in sleepy confusion at the empty space in front of her.

“Here, Alice,” he replies and watches her roll over. She winces as she does so.

“Are you all right?” he inquires, his conscience pricking him ruthlessly: he had been too... _thorough_ last night. She is sore and it is his fault and he shouldn’t have allowed his desperation to please her drive him to hurt her.

She smiles reassuringly and nods. When she moves to sit up, Tarrant puts an arm across her back to help her. She tucks the sheet around herself and reaches for the teacup. “Thank you. This will help.”

Tarrant imagines he would have felt rather disappointed at not being permitted just one more glimpse of Alice’s lovely breasts, but in the case of hot tea, yes, a bit of covering is called for. He allows Alice to take the cup from his hand but he is too overwhelmed by the sudden thought of how Alice  _might_ have greeted him if no steaming cups of tea had been present... Would she have stretched her arms toward him until her breasts and – perhaps... perhaps if he is  _very_ lucky – her hardened pink nipples peeked out at him from the edge of the sheet. Might she have--

“Ugh!”

Tarrant startles, twitches bodily, as Alice chokes into her tea and sputters noisily.

Tarrant berates himself as he rubs her back and accepts the cup from her unsteady hands.

“That--!” she gasps, coughs, and wheezes. “Why--?!”

“It’s quite necessary, I’m afraid,” he replies sympathetically, still rubbing circles on her bare back.

She leans away from him and  _glares._ “Pishsalver?” she accuses. “What are you going to do, hide me in another teapot and transport me to my room so that no one sees me leaving yours at this hour?”

Tarrant gawks. And, when he remembers to breathe, he experiences a very odd sensation in his chest. It feels as if the edges of his heart have crumbled and fallen away. Surely...  _surely_ Alice trusts him more than... that.

“Alice... you are still the same size,” he points out dumbly in his defense. When she glances down and takes note of this, he clears his throat. “I... would never..." Tarrant makes a concentrated effort to gather himself before Alice notices how deeply she had just wounded him. "This is only tea.”

“Horrid tea. Tastes like Pishsalver,” she mutters.

“Yes, it is horrid, although, having never partaken of Pishsalver myself, I can’t really appreciate the comparison.”

For a moment, they merely look at each other, then look away, and then Tarrant forces himself to ask, “If you would rather no one see you leave my rooms this morning...?”

She lifts her chin and her eyes flash. “Are you implying that I’m ashamed of what we’ve done?”

He frowns and thinks very carefully about what he wishes to say next. “If you were to think it would be a shame for you to be seen leaving my rooms... I would regret that very much.”

Alice blinks at him, sighs, and then rubs her forehead with the heels of her hands. “Bugger, I’m not awake enough to sort that out. Hatter...”

His heart twists painfully at the title. Surely, after last night, she would feel more inclined to use his given name? He is both desperate and afraid to ask her that very question.

“Are _you_ ashamed?”

Taken aback, he gapes at Alice’s challenge. “No, Alice,” he replies softly. He is, perhaps, ashamed of himself. Ashamed of being so foolishly hopeful that one night in his bed would Change Things...

She sighs and offers him another smile. “I’m sorry. I seem to be rather out of sorts this morning. Perhaps, if I could have some tea?”

“Here,” he replies woodenly, offering the cup back to her.

She makes a face at it. “I was hoping for...  _drinkable_ tea.”

“I will make a fresh pot as soon as you’ve drunk this one cup.”

“It’s terrible.”

“But necessary.”

“Why?” she demands suspiciously.

He sighs. Of course she would ask. And, unfortunately, she still doubts him. It is long past time to address  _that_ at the very least. He meets her gaze and tells her softly, honestly, “I am not ashamed of what we did, Alice. I was only thinking that perhaps you’d not like to be only friends with the father of your child.”

“Child?” she echoes after a long moment.

He nods to the cup in his hand. It is no longer steaming and he fears the lowered temperature will make it that much more bitter and difficult to swallow. “You need only drink it this once.”

“What does it do?” she asks, eyeing the cup with apprehension.

“It renders the drinker incapable of... procreating for that day.”

“So... there won’t be any lessons today?”

Her visible disappointment soothes him. If she still wants him, then he still has the chance to try to show her...! Giddy with relief, he struggles to sound neutral: “Alice, you are sore. I doubt today would be a good day to... resume our lessons. But, no, the tea does not affect... appetites. Merely the consequences.”

Her brows knit and her nose scrunches up adorably as she considers that. “But... if we continue on as we did last night, then, surely, I’ll have to drink this vile concoction every morning.”

_ Every morning? _ he wants to ask, to confirm that – for the time being – she will desire his company That Often, but he doesn’t. “Only one of us need consume it.” He gives her a brave smile and forces himself to address the matter in the terms he had agreed to the previous night, “As your teacher, this matter is my responsibility and I will see to it.”

“Still...” she protests and Tarrant loves her even more for this small evidence that she would try to find a way for him to avoid this temporary discomfort.

“And, as your friend,” he continues even more softly, “I do not mind.”

She smiles. “Thank you, Tarrant. I am very fortunate to have so good a friend.”

How can the same words both warm a heart and tear it in two? Tarrant is sure he will have more than enough time to ponder this phenomenon later.

Now with courage fortified, Alice reaches for the cup, looks into the depths of the slightly pinkish tea and then, with a sigh of resignation, she lifts it to her lips and guzzles it.

“Thank you, Alice,” he replies, daring to lean forward and press his lips to her temple. “I’ve made something for breakfast. If you’re hungry.”

“I am.”

“Then I’ll give you a moment to get dressed.”

With that, Tarrant stands and collects his own teacup. Alice watches as he, too, swallows the contents. Thankfully, he had tasted it earlier and thus knows to expect the shudder of revulsion. He valiantly suppresses it (and, unfortunately, the tea truly surpasses disgusting when consumed less-than-steaming hot), gives Alice an encouraging grin, and leaves the room. As he tends to the buttered bread, serving them up onto two plates and arranging everything on the small dining table in his rooms, Tarrant allows that this morning has, thus far, not been nearly as bad as it could have been.

So then, why doesn’t he feel more optimistic?

But he knows why. Tarrant returns to the kitchen to brew a second pot of tea – pleasantly-tasting and pleasing-to-drink tea this time – and considers the situation. Alice wants to continue their lessons, does she not? Well, true, that will give him more opportunities to woo her, but...

But she does not want wooing. She does not want a beau.

Or, at least, Alice  _ believes _ she doesn’t. But suppose he could show her both? Suppose she could see that there  _ is  _ a difference between having a Teacher and having a Lover. Suppose he could teach her  _ that  _ lesson...

Tarrant taps his fingers against the heated porcelain of the pot and muses, wonders, plans...

Yes, he will have to be very careful – as careful as he had been whilst leading the Resistance in secret against the Red Queen – but it  _ may  _ be possible... so long as Alice does not lose interest in his company. So long as she does not seek out others with which to assuage her passionate urges.

He glares at the pot and determines that, yes, he will have to acquiesce to her demands –  _ all  _ of her demands – for now. No, he cannot afford to deny her, not when she might seek out another (more indulgent) instructor. But how he meets those demands... well, as the Teacher, that is up to him. And perhaps, little by little, he might introduce her to her Lover and – by then – he hopes she will prefer him to her former Teacher.

’ _Tis a dangerous gamble ye’re about teh make, lad._

He knows. But if he wins, the rewards – Alice’s love – will be more than worth it.


	2. Chapter 2

If Alice had believed herself cognizant of the Hatter’s sensuality before, it is nothing compared to the awareness she holds of him now. It is an awareness that is both carnal and inquisitive. All aspects of him are hungrily inspected by her salacious gaze: his long-fingered, capable hands (hands that had held her hips as she was certain she was falling apart from the inside out) his impossibly pale skin (skin that she had tasted on her tongue), his springy, soft hair (that she had been delighted to learn was present in attractive amounts all over his entire body). The salt and sweat and maleness of him had been so foreign and erotic the previous evening that, even now, she still feels intoxicated by his presence. 

Yes, the awareness she holds of him _before_ is but a pale shadow of the garden of delights her _carnal_ knowledge is perceptive of now. With only her imagination as her guide, she’d still wanted him, her dear friend. Without knowing what it was she had been truly yearning for, she’d singled him out as the one to assist her in learning if all she’d read described or accidentally overheard is true. But now that she knew that it is (oh, it _is_!) Alice finds she can do little else other than stare at the Hatter and _remember_.

 _It is a wonder_ , Alice thinks, _that anything ever gets done_. How is society able to function on the level it does if such pleasurable activities are available to be partaken in? Alice knows, without a doubt, if she were given the option--between being where she currently is (at a meeting that Mirana had called) and back in the Hatter’s rooms furthering her education-- what she would choose.

She wriggles in her chair, trying to relieve the tension that is coiled low in her belly, but the action only seems to acerbate her problem. Huffing a great sigh, Alice fidgets again, biting her lip until it nearly bleeds as she shifts in just the right manner to irritate her tender flesh. A burning wave (that would have been pain if not for the memory of the pleasure which had caused it) throbs through her nether regions and ricochets through her lower body.

 _Damn Hatter_! Alice thinks furiously, her eyes riveted on the man who is currently sipping water from a fluted glass. He is acting for all of Underland as if they--as if last night they hadn't--as though he-- _as_ _though..._ _!_

Not once that Alice has noticed has he looked in her direction. There have been no secret smiles, no flushed cheeks, no knowing twitches or nervous gestures. _Down_ _there_ she is still sore from where his member had breached her maidenhead....walking makes parts of her she'd never really considered before yesterday twinge in recollection...and somehow _he_ manages to sit there with a damnable pleasant-yet-otherwise-unremarkable expression on his face and...and...how can he be so _calm_?!?

Her thoughts, instead of banking the fire below, as she half-expects them to, seem to encourage it. Alice licks her lips and uncrosses-to-recross her legs. _I am a positive_ _ **wanton**_ , she muses, less ashamed than she would have imagined over such a scandalous idea. In fact, if she has to label how she feels about it, Alice would say she _likes_ it. Likes it and wishes that there was a legitimate-sounding excuse for she and Hatter to slip away from this meeting, go back to his rooms and...

“Alice, do you agree?”

“Um-hmm...” Alice hums stupidly, jerking back to attention only when she feels several sets of eyes, Mirana’s chief amongst them, staring incredulously at her. Tarrant is the only exception, and he sits with a sly, knowing smirk on his face, a subtle tilt to his brows as he finally-- _finally_!--lifts his eyes to hers. She burns from shame and desire equally as her gaze flicks from his darkening irises to the glass in his hand--a glass that he begins stroking suggestively with the side of his thumb as he watches her reaction through his lashes.

 _ **Damn him!**_ Alice thinks again. He has known the whole time what she’s been thinking, what she’s been feeling, and he’s been _teasing_ her!

“Are you all right, Alice?” Mirana asks, reaching out with one white hand. “You’re quite flushed.”

There is no way that the Queen can know what she has been thinking of instead of the meeting, but the very idea that she has allowed her attention to wander to... such things... in Mirana’s presence fills her with shame. Despite her protests, Mirana had made Alice an Advisor to the Crown upon her return to Underland, a position that is both an honor and deeply intimidating to the young woman. All meetings that Mirana has called--even those that Alice thinks were wholly unnecessary—she has treated with respect and her full attention... until today. Today, when she’d allowed her baser desires (and the Hatter) to distract her from her duties to the Crown and the woman who wears it. The humiliation is enough to make her wonder how she will ever be able to meet the Queen’s eye again...

Alice stares quite hard at the tabletop as she says, as steadily as she is able, “Yes. I’m fine.” Merely slightly queasy with shame. Just what had she grunted her agreement to?

“Then you agree that a ten-meter-tall monument of Chessur wearing Tarrant’s hat should be erected in the Queast garden, to celebrate his... contributions to the cause... leading up to Frabjous Day?” Mirana queries softly, brows furrowing in what can only be labeled as surprise. Tarrant snorts, clearly amused by Alice’s predicament. She wants desperately to kick him under the table, but he is across the way and two individuals down, too far for her feet to reach.

“Errr...” Is _that_ what everyone had been discussing? This is the emergency that required they all meet at once? And now the Queen wants _her_ opinion of it? Relief (that the subject is not a more delicate one than this) and exasperation (Chessur _has_ to have been the one to suggest such a thing!) mingle with frustration. It is things like this that make Alice feel completely out of her element. What are the Underlandian traditions on such things as memorials and monuments? Still, she can’t back out now; she will not give the Hatter – or his damned smirk! – the satisfaction!

“Yes!” Alice says, as brightly as she can. “It couldn’t hurt, could it? It would make Chessur happy, I’m sure.” As the faces around her continue to reflect the same amount of shock and disbelief that they’d held when she’d first come back to the reality of the meeting, Alice hastens to add, “And his heroic efforts _should_ be recognized. He could have _died_... So... um... yes,” she finishes, lamely, the most inarticulate she has managed to be at an Advisory meeting yet (and there have been meetings that she's felt inarticulate, indeed).

“Thank you, Alice, for being more astute with regards to the obvious than most... well, with regards to _this_ , anyways.” The cat cuts a significant look towards the Hatter, but what that look signifies, Alice is not certain. In response, Tarrant grips his water glass a bit too tightly; it squeaks – “Hey, leggo!” – in protest. He releases it promptly, flexes his fingers, and mutters an apology.

A long, ominous pause engulfs the table, until finally, the Queen breaks the silence by murmuring, “Interesting.”

That, and nothing more. Dark eyes move from Alice to Tarrant. Alice, if later pressed, will not be able to deny that she sees a hint of a smile lurking on the corner of the Queen’s mouth. The Champion doesn’t believe Mirana’s almost-smile refers to Alice’s hastily contrived reasoning for agreeing to the monument. “That will be all for now. If you will excuse me, I shall call this meeting adjourned.”

  
The meeting is over? Alice is a bit stunned. It seems like it had taken forever and yet it had just begun. As all filter out of the room, Alice marches over to Tarrant and grabs his arm. His face reflects a mask of polite inquiry but--curse the man!--his eyes dance with mischievous delight as he says, “Was there something I could assist you with, Champion Alice?”

“You know there is,” she growls on an exhalation. “I’m ready for my next lesson, _teacher_.” 

“Oh?” His voice is nothing but polite wonderment. “Let me know what time would be most convenient for you and I will consult my watch to determine which time would be most convenient for me and--”

“Right now.” 

For the first time since entering the meeting chamber, Tarrant looks unbalanced. _Finally_ , she thinks viciously, _he looks how I feel_!

“ _Now?_ ”

Alice nods with as much authority as she can muster. 

“Here,” she demands.

“H- _here_?” Tarrant stutters. 

“Right. Now.” Alice insists as she takes his arm and drags him from the meeting room into the nearest empty space—the adjoining Throne Room. “Here.”

“I think you’re forgetting yourself, laddie,” Tarrant hisses, pulling his arm free from her grasp. “I am the teacher here, aye? And you the student. This,” he gestures from her, to himself, and then to the Throne Room at large, “is not on the syllabus. If you’re certain you’d like to continue your lessons, we can adjourn to my rooms and--”

“No.”

Alice doesn’t know where her fury is coming from, doesn’t really care. All she knows is that right at the moment, she is absolutely peeved with Tarrant Hightopp. At his seeming nonchalance during the meeting, at herself for not thinking of certain aspects of their arrangement that would need to be taken care of (and yes, he’d thought of it by arranging for the tea, but she should have _known_! Should have thought of and prepared for such a thing!) and these are _her_ lessons, are they not? She should be the one taking responsibility and action and--! She mollifies herself with the fact that she hadn’t known that there exists a tea in Underland that could accomplish such a thing as non-fertility, and mostly succeeds in shoving aside the niggling thought that she should have known enough to at least ask after such a thing.

Last night, she’d been so certain of herself and her plan to seduce her friend. It had seemed like a perfect solution, to have the Hatter be the one to assist her in her explorations. She would be the one in control of her sex-- _she_ would have the choice of what happened and when, of how far it would go and where it would happen, unlike what would have awaited her in an Above marriage bed. There, her body would have been an instrument of her husband’s pleasure, nothing more.

Now she finds herself in a situation she’d been hoping to avoid--with a man who is telling her what she can and cannot do, treating her body as if it is his to do with whatever he pleases...

Rationally, Alice knows her anger is ridiculous, that the Hatter has not been treating her as such at all. That does not prevent her, though, from attempting to exert control over what feels to be a rapidly-spiraling-out-of-her-grasp situation once more. She pulls impatiently on the front of his trousers.

“I don’t want to wait,” she asserts, thinking of abundant smirks and a lack of warmth and caring... and... and _she had wanted this!_ Yes, she had. _Does._ And she is taking it! He gulps audibly as her questing fingers loosen the first of his many fastenings.

The Hatter begins walking backwards, slowly. “We would have to be quiet,” he warns her. 

Mouth quirking, she recognizes that if he’s giving token protests the battle is half-won. Alice promises, “I will be _very_ quiet.”  

Two more buttons are unfastened on his trousers before Hatter says, “This room echoes, you know. _Loudly_. The slightest sound...”

“Really?” Alice breathes. “Then perhaps we should stop talking, hmm?” 

And just like that, all of Alice’s anger vanishes as the Hatter apparently takes her words for the challenge they are. Tarrant allows Alice to loosen the rest of his trouser buttons and untuck his shirt before he backs up against the only piece of furniture in the entire room--the Throne itself. Surprising her, he sits on the cushioned chair and, with a whirl of limbs, turns her so that her back is to him. Her skirts are lifted and a strangled groan erupts from her as her pantaloons are tugged to her knees, exposing her bottom completely to the cool air. Lowering her carefully to his lap causes a shiver to skip across her body. 

“Hush, Alice,” he mouths as he enters her slowly, so very slowly. As if the incremental pace could somehow make the feeling of him inside her less intense.

She can’t help the whimper that escapes her throat, and he tightens his grip on her hips warningly as it echoes in the expansive room.

“I’ll stop,” he warns her under his breath. She twists around as best she can and watches, incredulously, as his brows twitch into a fierce frown. He means it--she can see it. He'll stop right now, pull out and walk away. Leave her panting and desperate on the queen's throne.

"I’ll summon Chessur,” she snaps soundlessly.

He grits his teeth, clenches his jaw, and then he’s _in_.

“We’ve discussed that.” Tarrant hisses in her ear, holding her squirming form against him. “Nauw no’ an’ther word. Aye?”

Alice swallows her noisy, shallow breaths and nods. She’d agree to anything to get him to move.

And move, he does.

The first thrust is shallow, the angle awkward. The second is deeper, and with the third, Hatter drives himself so deep inside that it is nearly painful. She whimpers again. 

Tarrant pauses.

“Nay, no another peep, Alice. D'ye want the Queen to investigate? To find us thusly?” he nearly growls. It is the first time that Alice, in her desperate, fevered distraction, even considers that the Hatter might not be inclined to... have lessons... in such a public place. 

She shakes her head frantically, causing the Hatter to relax infinitesimally. The hands that had been griping her hips near-to-bruising loosen a fraction, and he thrusts against her again. The need for discretion is absolute, and is the only thing that keeps Alice from crying out as their pace increases. She can feel her thighs growing messily slick, can feel her inner muscles flutter around the pleasurable intrusion. The Hatter pants against her neck, his hot breath causing the flutters to give way to clenching. 

She grinds herself against his lap, and the Hatter grunts, the sound much louder than the whimpers he’d chastised her for. It practically reverberates through the cavernous space, and that noise, that indication that she is affecting him so greatly that he is ignoring his own edict for absolute silence causes her to fall, completely unprepared, into the pleasure that she’d demanded he show her the evening prior. 

Panting, writhing in her desperate bid to stay as silent as possible, Alice grasps his forearms and exhales harshly through her nose. The fabric is soft under her fingers; the tactile sensation keeps her grounded enough to not cry out her triumph. 

The Hatter, it seems, needs additional assistance. Alice can feel him nuzzle her shoulder, fights the gasp that rises in her throat as she feels his teeth, blunt and hard-edged, secure themselves upon her shoulder. 

The delicate fabric that comprises her diaphanous tunic tears, shredding under the fury of his assault. Alice supposes the shirt had not been designed with such rigorous activity in mind. 

_There are only two other shirts in my wardrobe_ , she frets. They are both as unsuited to this activity as the one she is currently wearing.

Perhaps if she asks, Tarrant will not be adverse to stitching together a few pieces? Or, failing that, she could always don one of his...it is his fault, after all, that her wardrobe is in danger of depleting itself completely.

It is worth asking. Later, though. Other, more pressing things demand her attention now.

With his teeth occupied in rending the fabric and scraping the skin of her shoulder, the Hatter is unable to maintain his litany of near-silent commands to keep quiet. Until then, she hadn’t been aware how effective they were. It is up to her, now, to keep herself in check so that they will not be discovered.

She nearly succeeds. Nearly, but they are not playing horseshoes. At the very last, as she feels his careful movements become less precise, as she feels him begin to wriggle and shift and tense and grasp her hips ever-more firmly, he startles her with a slight change in angle. Then she’s falling apart, shuddering, shaking. She lets loose a small shriek. Small, and if they were in any other room, perhaps not noticeable—but the Throne Room had been designed to amplify the tiniest of noises. It sounds like a full-bodied scream.

Too late, one rough, calloused hand clamps over her mouth, and the Hatter grunts with effort as he thrusts once, twice more, and then he spends himself. Alice barely has time to relish the feel of him releasing inside of her before he is pushing her off his lap. Scrambling for her rumpled skirts, he shakes them so that they fall about her ankles. 

“Hatter!” she cries breathlessly. Her pantaloons are still around her knees, and the skirts cover that, but now that they are not joined, her buttocks being bared makes her feel exposed and vulnerable. Flicking her hair onto her shoulders instead of away from her face, as Alice prefers, he mutters, “Aye, that’ll do.” She automatically raises a hand to tuck the stray locks behind her ear and he hisses, “Nay, leave it.” Looking down, she sees the tear, and knows what he is about. Any further arguments she may have had drift into nothingness.

With a speed that is unique to him (even among Underlandians), Hatter tucks himself back into his pants, rearranges his shirt, and fastens the top button on his trousers just as a stream of smoke slips under the door and coalesces into Chessur.

“Is all well? I heard the _most_ full-throated shout.” 

“We’re fine!” Alice warbles. 

The Hatter places a hand on the small of her back as he agrees, “Yes, just fine.” 

Chessur says nothing, but Alice has the impression that were he able, a brow would be lifted in disbelief. “Hrm...” he purrs, as he sniffs the air. “As you say, then. But what,” he inquires drolly, spinning his body (although his head remains stationary), “could you _possibly_ be doing in the Throne Room while the Queen is not present?” His grin curls so high upon his cheeks that teeth are visible by his ears as he says, “Thinking of reassuming your own crown and wanted to.. .test the seat? See how you--” 

“Is that all, Chessur?” Hatter interrupts, holding his head high. Never before that moment has her dear friend reminded her of Hamish Ascot, but right then, the resemblance is unsettling. The gesture is so unlike him that Alice nearly takes a step back and inquires as to what sort of game he’s playing—but the pantaloons still about her knees and a gentle push forward from the Hatter prevent her from doing so. She is of half a mind to shake off his hand. She wants no part of this high and mighty, male posturing...!

Male posturing! Alice catches the flash of a hostile glare as Tarrant puts himself between her and Chessur. Chessur doesn’t seem to mind the Hatter’s temper in the slightest however. He merely circles lazily and winks at Alice.

“ I’ll see you later, love?” the cat purrs at her.

Tarrant stiffens and suddenly Alice realizes precisely why he is behaving like an common London male. Oh, botheration! _She_ had done this. _She_ had threatened to take Chessur up on his offer and...!

“At dinner,” she confirms hastily, choosing both a public venue and one where Tarrant is also welcome. She nearly breathes out a slow sigh of relief when he relaxes. He glances at her, wary and anxious, and she smiles for him. “But I’m afraid I offered to keep the Hatter company this evening, Chessur.”

“Oh, that’s no less than I expected,” the creature muses. “Well, no doubt you’ve both things to do. Carry on!”

 _Carry on,_ indeed! Alice is frustrated enough to strangle him! All she needs is a mere _moment_ to adjust her underthings but the cat very clearly has no intention of allowing her that. Nor will she find the chance beyond these doors where frog footmen and spider monkeys have begun straightening up the meeting room or in the hall where she can hear the meeting participants still chatting amiably...

She is very thankful now for Tarrant’s supporting hand as she face this gauntlet before her. Walking carefully with mincing steps, Alice moves forward, nods her head and murmurs, “Chessur,” in acknowledgment before ducking out of the room. 

*~*~*~*

  
“ You know,” Tarrant begins, conversationally enough, as they gain distance (much more slowly than she would have liked, due to overly-verbose advisors remarking on her counterintuitive suggestion – which she endures with a determined smile and vague noises of agreement – and these cursed pantaloons still about her knees and creeping ever-downward!) from the Throne Room, “I do believe that I owe you a tunic.” 

Alice looks down at the torn sleeve, and despite her irritation with her undergarments, smiles. “I thought much the same thing. I’ve only the three shirts, you know, and then I’ll be back to wearing my London dresses. Well, two shirts, now.” 

“Unacceptable!” the Hatter declares with a sweeping gesture. “I’ve other business to attend to this afternoon,” he tells her with obvious reluctance, “that due to the Advisory meeting is likely to last well into the evening. Does a visit to my workshop tomorrow morning sound equitable to you?” 

“Only if I can spend the _after_ evening with you. Once you’ve completed your work,” Alice says hopefully. She marvels how, just minutes ago, she had been so full of anger – not only with him, but with herself and all of Underland – but now, knowing that he _would_ spend the day with her if only he _could_ , she feels only happiness.

“That would be...agreeable.” The words are carefully measured and terribly calm, but his sparkling, mismatched eyes and mischievous, tilted grin give him away. 

“Oh, just agreeable?” Alice teases, poking him in the side. 

“Until later, then,” he asks. They had made it to her door; Alice hadn’t noticed. She reaches up, pulls his face to hers, kisses him. After his initial whine of surprise, he cedes to the kiss, allows her to thrust her tongue forward, to taste and memorize the feel of his mouth against hers. She pulls away with a soft wet pop, licks her lips, meets his glowing and delighted gaze with her own and agrees, “Later.” 

*~*~*~*

 

Alice’s fingers curl around the arms of her chair... a rather throne-like chair, honestly. Perhaps that is why she had suddenly remembered that day after... after the meeting and in the Throne Room... But no, that doesn’t seem quite right, Alice muses, her brow furrowing. It is not the chair that had reminded her of that first rocky day. It is something else...

 _Traditionally, the day is spent with loved ones._

Mirana’s softly spoken explanation of Kinwich day pulls at Alice, makes her thoughts turn inexorably towards the one who has been occupying them a lot as of late: the Hatter. She’d gone to him for carnal knowledge gained with a friend, but lately... there seems to be a different Tarrant than the one Alice is accustomed to seeing residing under her friend’s skin... and she has the feeling that it is completely her fault!

There is the still the Hatter, the fun, giggling, rhyming man whom she had first met as a child. There is also Tarrant, the quiet, somber individual with a tortured past and gentle touches. And now there is the Teacher.

As the Teacher, he is more withdrawn... if he’d been anyone other than himself, she would have called him aloof. She has to try harder to pull him out of that aspect to return him to himself than the others. Some days, he is as he ever has been—a blending of Hatter and Tarrant, a whimsical, giggling, good-natured madman. Others, though, he has been terribly, horribly sane as the Teacher, and Alice had found herself missing his relative insanity as himself, as neither the Teacher nor the Hatter, but as Tarrant. He’d been showing her more and more those bits of himself, in the quiet, friendly moments of the day when she had not been demanding his more personal attentions. Almost helplessly, she recalls several of these moments of revelation nearly all at once...

It had not been the second night they’d spend together, or even the third, but several after that when Tarrant had asked her, “Would you like for me to plait your hair?”

His voice had come out as the sweetest of lisps but still low; they’d just finished a rather intense round of lessons and Alice had turned over, thoughts half-focused on sleep and the jellied feel of her relaxed limbs. The question, when asked, had been almost...shy. Alice remembers that she had paused, wondering at that shyness. She’d thought nothing could re-introduce that particular state of being to their bed. ( _Their bed?_ She’d pondered that briefly and then set it aside for future contemplation; the Hatter had asked a question and would likely like an answer sometime that night!)

The Hatter had taken her kneeling on all fours, had allowed her to ride him on the Queen’s very own throne, had licked and suckled her most private of places and moaned her name in the throes of climax... and yet this question, a seemingly innocent and simple query, had made him hesitant.

When she hadn’t replied right away – when she had merely turned back over and stared at him instead, trying to gather her scattered thoughts – a flush had crawled onto his cheeks and down his neck. Lowering his gaze, Tarrant had murmured, “It is only that you struggle with it when you awaken. I had thought...” Shaking his head, he’d said, “It doesn’t matter what I thought.”

He’d turned away, begun to nestle down into the blankets when Alice had found her voice. “That would be... nice,” she’d belatedly replied.

Sitting back up slowly, the blankets had pooled in his lap as he’d shifted to face her again. “Sit up, then, Alice,” he’d urged. She had, pulling the sheet up with her so that it had covered her breasts. At the time she had assured herself that the action had not been the result of modesty or prudishness, but simply because it had felt like the thing to do. But looking back now, she wonders... perhaps she _had_ felt more vulnerable then, just as Tarrant had. Yes, it had been a moment of something... _new_ and... _fragile_ between them.

She recalls his eagerness then: thin, nimble fingers had delved into her hair before she had gotten fully adjusted. Thimbles had caught in her curls as Tarrant had begun to finger-comb her locks. “Pardon,” he’d said, stopping just long enough to place the tokens of his trade (thimbles, pincushion ring, and a few alarmingly sharp hatpins that had been stashed about his person _somewhere_ ) in the dish on the bedside table specifically left for that purpose.

“Lean your head back,” he’d sighed. He’d taken his time plaiting her hair, fixing any snarls he’d found along the way. When finished, he tied it off with a scrap of ribbon (“Alice blue,” he’d informed her in a dreamy whisper, and where he had produced said ribbon from Alice has no idea) and placed a kiss upon her shoulder.

“All done,” he’d said at last, his voice sounding odd. Alice had wondered if this is a dismissal, an idea that had caused an unpleasant flop in her stomach. “Perhaps I should go back to my rooms now,” she’d offered; she hadn’t slept in her own quarters since the beginning of their arrangement and she could only wonder and fear... Is he growing sick of her in his chambers? Does he perhaps want his own space, his own bed back?

“You could stay,” he’d whispered, dropping another kiss against her bare skin, this time on the juncture where her neck and shoulder meet.

“For tonight,” she’d agreed, nearly light-headed with relief. Another kiss, and Tarrant had once again shyly proposed, “For as long as you desire.”

For as long as she desires... Alice is blind and deaf to the garden, the gazebo, the tea, the queen... She considers her desires these past weeks and realizes that – not once – had they led her to her own bed, to time spent with other friends when she might have been with Tarrant.

Tarrant. It is startling to realize that she had not known him well (not very well at all!) when she had propositioned him on that balcony. But, little by little, day by day, the man she knows as _Tarrant_ has eclipsed the other sides of his self: the Hatter and the Teacher.

Yes, the passion and the pleasure had stolen her breath. Yes, she is still in awe of his bravery and talent. But the days when he had _surprised_ her... _those_ , she realizes, are her very favorite...

“Let’s go fishing,” Tarrant had announced at breakfast one day. He’d just forced down another cup of that horrid tea (he hadn’t said anything, but she could see his shudder of revulsion as he had gulped it down, and the stench had been – as always – unmistakeable) and she’d blinked at him while he’d crammed half a scone in his mouth, presumably to rid it of the taste of the tea.

“Fishing? Why fishing?” Alice had asked, perplexed. She’d never pegged the Hatter as an outdoorsman, and his suggestion had thrown into focus just how much about him she still hadn’t known. Alice remembers that moment at the breakfast table clearly: it had been the moment she’d found herself wanting, _desperately_ , to know more, to question and pester him until he reveals to her all of his secrets. Alice had fumbled with the epiphany and Tarrant had continued on, unaware of her inner turmoil.

“Why not fishing?” he’d countered playfully. “It’s a lovely day for it. Look at that sky! Why, it’s a day _made_ for compliments!”

“Compliments?”

“Of course!” Tarrant had replied, eyebrows twitching with glee. “What else would we go fishing for?”

And so they had. Alice had lain on the grassy river bank, propped up against a giant driftwood log as Tarrant had rolled up the legs of his trousers and stepped, barefoot (and _why_ had she suddenly been struck with the most ridiculous urge to nuzzle his _feet_ of all things?) and in his shirtsleeves, into the frigid water. She’d brought along a book to read, but there had hardly been time to open it; the day, it seemed, had _indeed_ been made for compliments, for almost as soon as his line had been cast, he’d gotten a bite. Alice had giggled at the splashing and struggling until he’d finally pulled his quarry to the surface. Unhooking it deftly, he’d examined the small package topped by a tiny bow for a fraction of a second, then had ripped it open, and extracted its contents.

“Here!” Tarrant had called called, tossing a soggy, rumbled scrap of paper into her lap. It had landed with a sad, little, wet _plop_ , and Alice had picked it up, strangely not minding the cold, wet spot it had left on her trousers. “What...”

“It’s for you,” he’d told her, as if it should have been obvious.

Unfolding the paper, Alice had read:

 _Your hair shines brilliantly in the sunlight._

A giggle had tumbled out of her throat. “This could be to either one of us, Hatter.” And really, with the way he’d looked, standing in the sunlight with water droplets sparkling in his hair and the damp skin of his bare forearms glistening, he had more than fit the compliment to a T. She’d shown him the words, and he’d snorted, but, in the end, had merely said, “’Tis not for me, Alice.”

“How do you know?” she’d pressed. And now Alice wishes she had pressed harder, that day. She should have told him how striking he’d looked, how happy, how handsome, how...

But she hadn’t told him. She had been stupidly spellbound by his lazy grin curling the corners of his mouth. “Why, because I set out to-day to fish for compliments for _you_ .” And then he’d waded back into the water before she’d had a chance to properly respond.

Alice had set the paper off to the side to allow it to dry in the sun, and soon, another, and then another had joined it in her ever-growing collection. In one soggy package, she’d even gotten a small string of freshwater pearls. They had glimmered a brilliant peacock green in the sunlight, the same color as Tarrant’s eyes at their darkest, and Tarrant had abandoned his fishing to help her put them on.

“Best wear them now,” he’d counseled her, “for compliments are fun, but fleeting things.” His words had struck a chord in her then, and she’d reached for his hand. Her book and the still-submerged compliments had been left to their own devices as she’d pulled him to the lush grass and had pressed her cheek to his chest. She remembers she had listened to his heartbeat, had thought to tell him that _this_ sound is the best part of their fishing adventure, but when she’d looked up, his eyes had been closed, asleep.

Now that she thinks about it, they _have_ been spending less and less of their days attending to their “lessons” and more on just spending time with one another. The first days had been full of constant explorations, that is true, but as time had passed those activities had given way to other, more innocent but equally pleasurable ones. When had that begun to occur? She hadn’t noticed, hadn’t even thought to object! A vague memory tugs on the edge of her awareness, of herself on a sea-shore, speaking to a gryphon and a sobbing turtle-like creature, and of lessons that lessen, and suddenly things make less (and more!) sense than they had just five minutes prior.

“Alice?”

Distantly she hears her name, but she tries to ignore it, to focus on this new revelation of herself and her actions... of _their_ actions, she and Tarrant’s...

“Alice!”

The almost-shout makes Alice straighten automatically in her chair. She blinks across the way at the Queen and forces a smile. Despite her return to the present, Mirana’s words still resonate in her mind, haunting her thoughts and making her heart ache all at once: _“Are you saying you have no loved ones here in Underland?”_

It is quite distracting as is the unsettling feeling that she is on the verge of understanding _why_ ...

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. What were you saying?”

The Queen smiles gently, knowingly, and glances down to give her tea a perfunctory stir with her teaspoon. “Nothing, dear Alice. I was saying nothing... I was watching. Merely that and nothing more.”

Alice frowns. “I’m sorry?”

“I’ve been watching our Hatter as well,” she continues, selecting a shortbread cookie from the sweets tray with great care.

Alice feels herself tense: _our_ Hatter? Hardly! He is--!

“Forgive me,” the Queen continues. “I misspoke. Although that is precisely my point.”

Thoroughly confused, Alice merely looks at the Queen over the tea service.

She helpfully explains, “I feel – and I have felt for sometime now – that he is rather becoming _your_ Hatter, Alice... and, if you wish it to be so, I do not expect he would have any objections.”

“I...” The word escapes despite the lack of thought behind it. For a moment, Alice’s mind, so recently immersed in the breathtakingly sensual and joyfully companionable memories of the last few weeks, is completely and utterly blank. “You’re right...” she murmurs numbly as the truth beings to dawn on her. Yes, the Hatter has given her every indication that he would like to make their arrangement... stable, permanent, equal...

All of the the evenings he had tenderly plaited her hair for her before bed, every moment of discovery that she had enjoyed as she’d learned more about him and his fondness for tea cozies (of all things!) and... She recalls each instance of gentlemanly gestures, every query into her thoughts and opinions, all of the indulgences he continually bestows (the drinking of that rancid tea hardly the least among them)! Those are not the actions of the Teacher, she realizes, whom she has long known to be unsmiling and even cold. (She squashes a shiver as she remembers seeing the likeness of Hamish reflected in his mannerisms and pose in the Throne Room when Chessur had very nearly caught them out!) Yes, none of the kindness he shows her springs from _that_ barren well . She realizes now that she is _thankful_ the Teacher has not made an appearance recently. Not since their times abed had become more infrequent and less about learning and more about... something else. Something warm and fun and happy.

That had been her initial intention, back when she had asked him to help her explore the secrets of her own body. She had expected it to be carefree and fun and friendly. And yet, when she thinks of her Friend, she does not imagine him bare and laid out upon the sheets. No, that image belongs to the man she knows as _Tarrant_ . So what does that mean? For her? For _them?_ She had promised him nothing would change in their friendship... but she suspects something _has_ . For he is no longer _simply_ her friend when they are out and about; there is something else... something more there than meets the eye: as friendly and as kind as all his gestures are, they are not the habits of a mere _friend_ (for Mally and Chessur never go to such lengths to charm a smile from her!) which means he...

Her breath catches in her throat. Could it be he...?

She recalls the nervousness with which he had first offered to tend to her hair, his embarrassed mumblings at having noticed her plight every morning... He _notices..._ far more than anyone else because he _cares_ to notice, perhaps even _takes care_ to notice the things she needs, the things she likes, the thoughts she doesn’t speak...

No, Tarrant Hightopp is not her Friend. Not any longer. He is More. He _could_ be more... He could be _hers_ ... if she wants him.

And she does. There is no question about it. None at all.

“I see,” Alice manages, trying not to fidget in her seat, trying not to glance over her shoulder toward the workshop window, trying not to think about where he is _right now_.

The Queen’s smile widens briefly and her dark eyes shimmer and Alice is _sure_ that somehow Mirana _knows_ that she is _dying_ to overturn her chair and _dash_ into the castle and _find_ Tarrant and _tell_ him...

“Well,” Mirana remarks. “Now that _that’s_ sorted... well, yes. The other matters can wait until after Kinwich Day. Thank you for meeting me for tea this afternoon, Alice.”

Alice doesn’t need to hear the polite and merciful dismissal twice. The chair doesn’t fall over, but it does wobble precariously – squeaking in alarm as it does so – before its legs clatter back to the floor of the gazebo. As Alice leaps down the steps and jogs across the lawn toward the castle entrance, she spares a thought for gazebos and their indirect role in choices made, but it is a wisp of a contemplation at best. For now, she only thinks of Tarrant, her friend, her teacher, and – if she asks _very_ nicely – perhaps More.

Panting, she pauses outside his workshop door and struggles with her breathing, her pounding heart, her racing pulse. She is more nervous now than when she had asked him to show her the way it can be between a man and a woman. She is more anxious and agitated and _needy_ now than she had been that day of the meeting, on his lap in the throne room, wanting more of him but unsure of how to obtain that... ownership.

But no, it is not ownership that she wants. She sees that very clearly. She wants...

Alice reaches for the handle of the door...

… and then takes an abrupt step back as Chessur’s great, furry head seems to pop into existence right in front of her nose.

“Eavesdropping is never a good idea when one has much invested in the outcome of the conversation overheard,” he remarks.

“I’m sorry?” she replies, blinking at the non sequitur.

Chessur’s grin widens. “Tell _him_ that...” he instructs her with a nod over his invisible shoulder, indicating the very doorway Alice wishes to pass through. “Although you might have to wait a bit. Sleeping draughts tend to make one very dull for hours on end.”

“A sleeping draught... why would...?”

“Can you think of no reason why a mad hatter might find himself put to sleep? Everyone knows a little hard liquor does wonders... especially if it’s _medicated._ ” Chessur floats into the hall, materializing as he moves. “Ta ta, dear Alice. Perhaps, after Kinwich Day, you’ll visit the Queast Gardens to admire my monument?”

“Yes, of course,” she murmurs, only half listening.

Satisfied, Chessur turns and ambles away, presumably in search of other mischief. Alice does not care. She stares at the door for a moment and then, frowning with determination, opens it.

The workshop _is_ a bit messier than usual, she notes as she steps inside. The state of the floor – littered with this and that – is probably due to the rather large, clear space on the central work table. She moves forward, examining the slumped figure of the man leaning heavily on its surface.

“Hatter?” she asks and then, stuttering, corrects herself, “Tarrant?”

He does not reply. His back and shoulders move with regular, even breaths. His head – pillowed on his arms on the table’s surface – is perfectly still. His eyes are shut and expression relaxed. Alice swallows thickly as emotion rises within her, unchecked. He has never looked... more vulnerable.

And she thinks she knows why.

Eavesdropping and sleeping draughts and mess-making and conversations in which one has a stake...

He had overheard her conversation with the Queen. Or, rather, he had heard the Queen’s tactful yet firm proddings and Alice’s asinine ignorance. She wonders when he had come here – certainly several minutes before she had! – and winces when she replays the conversation. This man... he _loves_ her. There is no more self-evident truth than that in this moment. He loves her and she had not even thought to mention his name when the Queen had explained Kinwich Day. She watches him sleep, remembers all of his tenderness and care, and finally realizes the fact that she has been stubbornly ignoring: here, sleeping soundly on this table, this man... he is her true loved one.

She closes the door behind her and picks her way through the debris on the floor. He should be in bed. Alice sinks down onto the wooden bench beside him, presses herself against his warmth and lays an arm across his back. She sighs.

She can imagine what had happened here. Tarrant had returned, understandably upset, and had – no doubt – swept his arm across the table (much as he had done in Crims when the madness had come upon him there) to scatter the staring hats and quiet the jeering voices. Chessur had popped up and offered him – or nagged him perhaps – into indulging in a glass of whiskey... or the Underland equivalent of it and... Yes, there. Alice reaches out and picks up the small glass from his limp fingers. She sniffs the dregs and makes a face at the fumes. Strong stuff, indeed. So strong, and perhaps so heavily laced with that sleeping draught, that Tarrant had perhaps not even stayed conscious long enough to consider tossing the glass at the hearth. He had succumbed and slumped over this table... and fallen asleep.

Although Alice cannot always understand Chessur – or _wish_ to understand him – she can only feel thankful for this. The cat had very likely tricked Tarrant into drinking the medicine, but doing so has spared him great pain.

But when he wakes up...!

“I have so much to tell you... to show you,” she whispers into his orange hair.

Alice leans her head against his shoulder and reaches for his hand. With one arm round his shoulders and the other fitted against his palm, she dozes on the wooden bench... and waits for him to wake up.

*~*~*~*

The warm, solid surface beneath Alice’s cheek lifts and she stirs to the sussurus noise of a very Tarrant-sounding deep breath. Blinking, she sits up, disoriented in the darkness that she now finds herself surrounded by. The fire glows lazily in the hearth, giving Alice just enough light to see Tarrant’s face as he lifts his head, winces fiercely, and opens his eyes.

“Alice?” he whispers, his voice soft with sleep.

“Yes, I’m here.” She rubs his shoulder and grips his hand. “We slept,” she tells him unnecessarily.

“I noticed,” he remarks, sniffing the air. “It’s almost daybreak,” he continues and then gazes down at the hand being held in his. Alice tightens her grip and searches frantically for the words she wants to say to him.

They remain elusive.

“You know what today is, don’t you?” he lisps.

Alice reaches around with her other hand and gently combs his twitching, wild brows. “Kinwich Day.” She damns herself for not being able to say more than those two words.

Tarrant closes his eyes, takes a deep breath... and releases her hand. Her heart thumps painfully at the gesture; he is letting her go. He is letting her choose to return to London to see her family. He is not even going to try to make her stay.

Shame burns her insides to cinders. This man, this wonderful, thoughtful, giving, exceptional man... How could she have ever compared him to those men Above? How could she have ever thought he would restrain her, use her, manipulate her, demean her as they undoubtedly would if only they could?

“Kinwich Day,” she whispers softly, repeats, draws his attention back to her as she determinedly seeks out his hands and grasps them with hers. “The Queen told me it’s meant to be spent with loved ones.”

He nods. She can feel his tension even though she is only clutching his hands, only pressing her shoulder and thigh against his. She clears her throat and rasps, “Is there... are there any rules against spending it with the one you love... the most?”

He inhales sharply. “No...” he breathes, tenser than ever.

“Then... would it be all right... if we spent it together? Just... just the two of us?”

Alice doesn’t realize she is shivering until his hands return the trembling yet tight grip of hers. “Just... us?” he checks, sounding as frightened as she feels.

She nods. “Yes. Tarrant, I...”

He waits, breath held.

Her thoughts scatter, reform, jumble and bounce within her skull. She pushes herself closer to him, to his solid warmth and strength and Tarrant-ness... and yes, it has always been about that, hasn’t it? Yes, she had been Curious, but she not been _indiscriminately_ curious. She had wanted _him_ .

“I never seriously considered Chessur’s offer,” she blurts. “It was always you. I was curious, yes, but it had to be you. And if you had refused me, I... there would have been no one else.” She swallows. “It has always been you. For me. Tarrant.”

She both hears and feels it when he releases a long, shuddering breath.

“I’m sorry,” she continues before she forgets or becomes distracted from mentioning this one last, crucial thing. “I should have known... I should have realized sooner. You deserved that and I was too frightened of losing control to give you that honesty. Or this: I... I love you. And I’m sor--”

The word is pushed back down her throat when his lips press against hers. Unlike many of the other times they have kissed passionately, Alice does not battle with him for rights to direct this kiss. She gives in, opens her mouth to him, strokes his tongue with hers when it surges – hot and demanding – past her lips, moans softly when he pleases her, shivers eloquently when he makes that small, hungry sound in the back of his throat. She wants to reach for him but he still holds her hands in his on the tabletop.

Bit by bit, the kiss gentles until Tarrant invites her with beckoning caresses to return the kiss and she does. She has never kissed him like this before, with softness and delicacy and aimless intent. He shivers and whimpers but he does not press her for more. She kisses him because she can, not because she wants to taste those sensual magics again. This is not about her curiosity. Nor is it about the wanton needs of her body. This is about him. Just him.

And suddenly, she knows what the Right Thing to do is.

“Tarrant,” she leans away just enough to speak. As she does, her lips brush against his. “Come to bed with me?”

Expression dazed, he nods and, wobblingly, stands. Alice senses no wariness in him now, no suspicion. He is not tense as he has been these last few days whenever she had demanded a lesson. He trusts her: she sees it. And she is determined not to lose that.

He leads her to his rooms through the workshop supply closet and Alice finds herself standing in the kitchen in his suite. It is dark here, too, but he leads her easily through the murky shadows and into the bedroom.

“I’ll start a fire,” she tells him. He does not reply. He simply helps her in the dark, guiding her hands and helping her put kindling in the hearth. He strikes a match and as the fire grows and devours the sticks and logs, Alice turns toward him, her body brushing against his chest, and kisses him again.

She cradles his face in her hands, pets his hair and massages the back of his neck. He is the one who, eventually, steps back toward the bed. This is not an exam, Alice knows. True, she will use all that she has learned to show him how precious he is to her, but the lessons she had learned, she now realizes, had never been about the flesh. They had been about the heart.

He sits down at the foot of the bed and, smiling, Alice undresses for him. Although they are lovers, she feels inexplicably shy. He watches with rapt attention as each button is undone, each lace untied, each layer of fabric is dropped to the floor. And when she is perfectly bare, she reaches for the buttons of his waistcoat. His hands come to rest on her hips but he says not a word. She can see the faith, the hope in his eyes and it gives her the strength to go slowly and gently. Her Tarrant is a gentleman... and gently is how she’ll treat him.

She sets aside his vest and ascot and shirt and then lifts her palms to his jaw and presses tiny kisses to his chin, his cheek, his eyes, his nose... “I love you, Tarrant,” she whispers, her gaze locked with his. He shudders and she kisses his lips, again, softly; nibbles daintily; licks as if she is collecting tiny drops of him for savoring.

His hands rise and she leans closer to him when one curves over her breast and the other fists in her hair. She ducks beneath his chin to kiss his throat as her hands work at his trouser fastenings. He kicks off his shoes and wiggles out of his remaining clothes as he scoots back onto the bed. Alice follows him on all fours until she is crouching over him.

“Sae ye’re th’ teacher nauw?” he whispers and Alice smiles. Yes, this is a reversal of their first time, but...

“No. I’m your lover... if you’ll have me.”

His eyes... even in the dim, yellow glow of the firelight she can see the change in them. She has never seen that color green before in his gaze. So absolutely pure and lovely. And his pupils... for the first time in memory, they both focus on her, dilated equally.

He does not speak, he reaches. Having obtained permission to do so, she touches him. Her hands start at his shoulders and travel over his chest which begins to heave with telling pants. She lowers her face to his skin and presses wet kisses to his Adam’s apple, his collarbone, the top of his left breast. She brushes her fingertips over his nipples until he moans and his hips jerk.

She knows, from previous experience, that his belly is ticklish; she leans back so that none of her long tresses will tease his skin, and smooths a single warm hand down the trail of short, reddish hairs. He whines softly when she does _not_ touch him _there._ She nudges his knees apart with one of her own, kneels between his spread legs, and continues the firm caresses along either side of his hips and down his muscular thighs.

“Alice...” he whispers when she lifts one of his surprisingly heavy legs, bends it gently and presses kisses to his bony knee.

“I love you,” she replies, sliding her hands to the inside of his thighs and then slowly but steadily upward.

He closes his eyes briefly and then opens them again on a soft exclamation: “ _Oh!_ ”

Tarrant watches her intermittently – struggles to keep his eyes open – as she rubs her thumbs against the underside of his sex. She has touched him here before – grabbed him, even – but always with the intention of filling herself with him. Not now. Her questing touch is gentle and, with a soft groan, he finally lays his head back and closes his eyes. His fingers twitch against the quilt on the bed. He surprises her as he basks in the soft attention for far longer than she, herself, would have been capable of enduring.

And then he begins to rock his hips. Alice pauses long enough to push her hair over her shoulders again. The moment this requires draws Tarrant’s undivided attention back to her. She meets his gaze as she collects him in her hands, and then she lowers her mouth and kisses him.

“Hngh!” he chokes out. His thighs tense on either side of her shoulders and she turns a bit to brush the curve of her breast against his leg. “Alice!”

She kisses him again, wetly. Licks at the firm, veined skin. With her fingertips and her tongue and lips, she draws even more needy sounds from his throat and determined thrusting of his hips. The ache between her own thighs sharpens. She crawls up his body, rubbing her breasts against his thighs, hips, stomach, and chest. He shivers and she reaches for his hand. Wordlessly, she guides his fingers to her core where she doesn’t doubt she is ready for him. She feels his fingers slip along her slick flesh. One delves gently inside her and _oooh...!_

“All right?” she rasps, feeling her control begin to unravel, unsure of what she will do if he refuses her.

“ _Yes._ ” His fingers move, rubbing her gently _there_ just inside and _there_ just at the top of her sex and, shuddering, she braces herself on her arms, closes her eyes, tilts her hips greedily into his touch.

“Ah, Alice...” he breathes, his other hand fondling her breast, his callused fingertips pinching her nipple.

She gasps, chokes on that same breath, stiffens, and comes. Before she can gather the wits to apologize – _she_ is making love to _him!_ Not the other way around! – he murmurs sexily, “Sae much, my Alice. Muchleh.”

“Hmm,” she moans and, gathering her thoughts and calming her racing heart, she leans back, reaches between them, and gently guides him into her.

“Ah--!” The sound is wrung from her being. The feeling of him inside her... it is... she had never really noticed how _much_ it... love... she loves this... she loves him... this is _love._ Making _love._ “Tarrant...” It is not a question; it is an observation. This moment, this feeling, all of it can be summarized by his name for that is all she feels, knows, wants, needs... “Tarrant...”

She rocks her hips against his, grits her teeth and arches her back when he slides-rubs-presses deeply and _just so_ , just _there_ within her and she can feel herself tightening around him and it is happening again – she can hear her own breaths shortening and feel her hips moving faster against his and _just a bit more..._

“Alice... Alice, stop, Alice, stop.”

For a moment, she thinks she _must_ be hallucinating. His hands do not try to still her movements, in fact, they still caress her breasts greedily. But no, that _is_ his voice saying...

“Stop.”

She does. She has to clench her thighs to manage it, but she does. “Stop?” she echoes, gazing blearily at him. “What...? Bad...? Did I hurt you?”

He gazes up at her, and she distantly notes that his smile is far more luminous that usual. He looks... well, _worshipful._ Slowly, Tarrant shakes his head against the pillows. “Nae, ye di’nae hurt me,” he whispers. “Bu’ I’ve been _waitin’_ f’r ye teh luv me Alice, an’ I wan’teh _feel_ it.”

Before she can ask what he means by that, his hands blaze trails of warmth from her breasts to her hips, which he grips very tightly in his hands, and holds absolutely still. She moans softly as he rocks his hips away, pulls out a bit and then slowly, so slowly, pushes back in. The fifth time he does this – performs this slow, deep rhythm – she forces her eyes to open and she watches him as he moves, watches his stomach muscles bunch and his neck cord. He watches her back, his eyes are mere hints of emeralds behind his nearly-closed lids, glimmering with pleasure.

And he _is_ taking his pleasure. Alice wonders why the sight of him using her body thus does not disgust her, does not demean her... She watches him – sees the pleasure he torments himself with as he continues on at this languid pace – and only feels passion. She is still tight around him with unfulfilled want and she _does_ want that relief, release, but she also wants this: his eyes narrowed and his teeth clenched and his body experiencing hers, truly, for the first time.

Yes, he had always satisfied _her_ urges, _her_ demands. It twists something inside her – and the sensation is both painful and awe-inspiring – that, given free reign with her body, he would choose to have her this way: slowly, savoringly, sweetly.

He continues this way, holding her still and keeping her balanced upon the very brink of pleasure for so long she feels herself slowly begin to strain toward him. With every thrust, she _crawls_ closer to the edge of the ravine she so very badly aches to dive into. She does not want to interrupt him, to disrupt this for him, but _oh-for-the-love-of-saucers would he just move a bit faster?!_

She grasps his hands with her own, presses her palms against his knuckles to remind herself not to fight him. This is for _him._ She has taken _enough_ over the last few weeks and it is now _her turn_ to give...

But, unlike her needs, his are not as demanding or consuming. Beneath hers, his hands move and she opens her eyes in time to see him smile softly. “Thank ye, Alice.”

For a moment, her mind is absolutely blank. And then, when his rhythm does not resume, when he seems to lean back and wait, she surges over him and presses a messy kiss to his neck. “Please,” she begs against his skin. “Just a bit more... a bit faster... _please_ ... so close... Tarrant...”

And then his arms wrap around her waist and his hips lift and she cries out at the feel of it. Yes, he knows what she likes. Those lessons hadn’t been solely for her own education; he had learned quite a bit from them as well. Her awareness fades until there is only the feel of his skin and heartbeat beneath her hands, the sounds of their breaths, and force driving into her again and again and again...!

She shatters, falls to pieces, turns to sparkling magical dust, and he holds her up, braces her and balances her as her body tightens and quakes and seeks and takes. She blindly grabs for his arms and holds on tight. “I love you,” she mouths despite the fact that her pleasure has stolen the very breath from her lungs.

If her brain hadn’t felt as if it were nothing more substantial than a whirling cyclone just beginning to lose its momentum and spin, she might have remarked on the tears leaking from the corners of his radiant eyes. “I know,” he whispers back.

The sound of his voice prompts her and she thinks back... “You didn’t...” She shifts against him and confirms the fact that he is no longer so... large. “Did you?”

He shakes his head and pulls her close. “This was better,” he replies just when she would have protested putting her full weight on him, when she would have offered to touch him, to help him achieve his release. But he does not want that. Not this time. She swallows back the observation and grips his shoulders as he clutches her tighter and tighter to his chest.

They cannot stay wrapped around each other for long, no matter how romantic the sentiment, for sweat begins to cool on their skin, and bare flesh becomes uncomfortably sticky and where they are joined... that is the messiest of all. Alice allows Tarrant to roll her gently onto her back and tuck the sheet around her.

“I’ll run the bath,” he murmurs against the corner of her mouth and she slides a hand into his hair, delays him in his mission by opening her mouth to him for just one more taste, one more ghostly echo of the feeling she had experienced when he had been inside her...

When he begins to giggle at her blatant attempt to put the necessity of bathing out of her mind, she releases him and watches as he pauses only to glance about with a slight frown.

“It’s in the workshop,” she supplies helpfully, knowing that what he seeks is his hat. He rarely crosses a threshold without it.

“Ah,” he sighs. “Where it will remain for now, then.”

Alice admires him as he strides from the room, perfectly nude, and toward the en suite bathing chamber. She dozes. Alice knows this because when a warm weight sinks down beside her on the bed and a gentle whisper wakes her, she sees Tarrant leaning over her, his hair damp and cheeks shaved, his hat perched atop his head, and his body – unfortunately – fully clothed.

He leans over her until his lips brush her cheek. “Your turn, Alice,” he whispers and, with a rather devious smile curling her lips, she throws back the sheet and strides toward the bathing room, perfectly nude. She glances over her shoulder just as she crosses the threshold, just to be sure...

And yes. He _is_ appreciating the view.

She doesn’t linger in the bath although the water is still steaming hot. She washes and dresses in a robe and pads into the common room of the apartment, one thing on her mind. And _there!_

Alice tiptoes until she presses against Tarrant’s back. He is frying toast again and the teapot he uses to brew that rancid tea is steaming not far away. She stares at it for a long moment, before she gives him a gentle squeeze and then turns away to collect the dishes and cups and silverware. She starts a second pot of tea and pours a cup from the first and then everything is ready. Tarrant sets the plate of toast on the table and reaches for his teacup.

His fingers curl around nothing but air. Alice watches as he startles, surveys the table, frowns, and then _finally_ looks up at her. She grins, raises the cup of perfectly wretched steaming tea in a silent toast to him, and drinks it herself.

“Alice?” It is not a question. Not really, but she answers:

“I thought we could at least switch off days drinking it.” His gaze is intense and she finds herself unnerved beneath it. She shrugs helplessly, not knowing what else to say. And then he rounds the table, his face utterly empty of the smile she had hoped to earn for choking down that vile brew.

 _Well, that was rather anti-climatic,_ she thinks, assuming he is going to pull out her chair for her, as usual, before taking his own seat.

“Alice,” he sighs and she finds herself wrapped up in a hatter. He burrows his face into her hair a breathes deeply, wetly, as if he is inhaling through tears. “I love ye, Alice,” he murmurs into her ear and she raises her arms and hugs him back.

He smells like soap and buttered toast and home, and Alice can not recall ever feeling so at peace anywhere else.

“I know,” she replies, just as he had, earlier. “And I love you. Thank you.”

“For what, laddie?” he brogues, rubbing his cheek against hers.

Her fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt at the small of his back and she turns her face toward him until she can whisper in his ear, “For teaching me how.”

 


End file.
